


Bloom

by assbuttsinlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Florist AU, Florist!Cas, Flowers, Handyman!Dean, M/M, Rain, Storm - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:58:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2436134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assbuttsinlove/pseuds/assbuttsinlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet Castiel Novak, the dark haired, guitar playing florist, who lives in the apartment above his store.  One day, he meets Dean Winchester, the green-eyed, freckled faced handyman who comes into his shop to fix a few things.  When a storm catches them unawares, they remain together in the shop, surrounded by flowers and rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not quite sure where this is going, but, here goes nothing.

The first thing Dean notices upon entering the shop is the smell.

The only word he can use to describe it is… _dank_. It smells like wood and fresh earth, and it conjures up images of long, hot summers, spent running off the pier and jumping into the lake.  He remembers dirt beneath his fingernails and the soft coolness of mud between his toes.   The image quickly fades as he finds himself standing in front of a colorful display of blossoms, their smell assaulting his nose. 

The flowers are beautiful, bathed in the warm glow of the sun.  He spots a bunch of pink carnations, sitting at the top of the wooden shelving, a little out of reach.  His eyes roam over the rest of the flowers, there are roses, various different colors, and more carnations scattered in between. He spies some long, lanky sunflowers, rising out of a green vase, their faces turned away from him. Marigolds line the bottom shelf, bursting with color, bright orange and yellow; they remind him of his mother, and he smiles. 

He notes that even though he has been in the shop for at least two minutes already, no one has stepped forward to help him, or ask him if there was anything he needs. In fact, the shop seems deserted, and it’s unnaturally quiet, almost as though the world had melted away and there was nothing left but him and the flowers.  A strange feeling settles on his chest, a nostalgia for things that he has never known, sunlight spilling onto an old wooden floor, a bed, sheets strewn with crushed petals, music, old sounding, accordions and violins, things that make his heart ache. 

Something stirs in the air and he pauses.  _Music_ , he realizes, coming from somewhere behind him.  First, the soft strumming of a guitar, and then, a voice.  He turns around, eyes taking in the rest of the dimly lit shop.  He stops when he sees it, a beaded curtain hanging in a doorway at the back of the room. Almost as though he were compelled, he begins walking toward the curtain.  His heart begins to race, the closer he gets, and he can hear the blood rushing in his ears.  He stops inches away from the curtain and he watches as his hand hovers in front of the beads.  He brushes them with the tips of his fingers and they rattle gently.

Immediately, the music stops. 

“Is someone there?”

Dean stumbles back, startled by the gravely voice coming from the other room. He hears footsteps, the soft creaking of floorboards and he knows he doesn’t have enough time to move away. With his heart caught in his throat, he waits, frozen, like a statue carved out of stone. The beaded curtain parts and for a moment, Dean forgets to breathe. 

Standing before him is the most beautiful man he has ever seen. 

His eyes are drawn to the man’s mouth first, soft, chapped lips, dusty pink, with the faintest shadow of stubble surrounding it.  He drifts upward to his nose, then to his eyes.  Dark lashes fan out, reaching for him, providing shade to two pools of blue.  In one moment, they seem dusty and dark, and he thinks of the sea, foam cresting on waves, waves crashing on rocks, _dangerous_ , and in the next moment, it is gone, replaced by something softer, more delicate. There’s a faint tinge of pink on his cheeks as well, a pleasant, rosy flush that makes Dean’s heart beat even faster in his chest. 

“Can I help you?” the man asks.  He runs a hand through his dark, unruly hair and finally steps out of the other room.  He crosses the threshold and plants his hands on his hips. 

“I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to pry,” Dean says quickly. 

The man smiles and waves him away.  “It’s fine. I was having lunch…well, getting ready to have lunch.  I thought I flipped the sign out front but I guess I forgot,” he says.  “ _Again_ ,” he adds, more to himself than to Dean. 

Dean watches as the man slides effortlessly behind the counter, paying attention to the little sliver of skin exposed at the base of his shirt. 

“So, who’s the lucky girl? Are you proposing?  Or perhaps, you were just in the mood to do something nice? Or is it for your mother?” the man asks, flashing Dean with a wide grin.   

Dean frowns. “Excuse me?” He feels his cheeks burn and he rubs the back of his neck. 

“Flowers. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?” the man asks. 

Dean blinks and stares into the florist’s blue eyes.  No, not blue, he thinks.  He searches for a different color because suddenly blue seems too… _simple_ , too easy for such an electric shade. He purses his lips and then with the glimmer of a smile, he lifts his tool kit.  “I’m actually here to fix your sink,” he says.

The man’s lips part in surprise.  “Oh,” he says softly, then he smiles.  “It’s in the back,” he says. 

Dean nods and he looks down at the wooden floor below his feet.  “I’m Dean, by the way,” he says as he looks up.

The man smiles at him and nods.  “Hello, Dean. I’m Castiel.”


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel observes the man as he works. 

He’s got strong hands and broad shoulders.  He hunches over the sink, pressing a plunger over the drain.  It makes a funny sucking sound, and it takes him back…miles and miles of green overhead, so much green, the sweet smell of the forest after rain, slick mud beneath his boots, the squelching of leaves as he made his way through the jungle, the painful sting of mosquitoes, biting, no matter how much repellent he used.   

“So, Castiel, what is that?” Dean asks. 

Castiel manages to pry his eyes away from Dean’s ass and picks up his guitar once more. “My parents are very religious,” he says with a little smile.  He strums a few chords, closing his eyes.  “ _Oh, Dean, your eyes are so green_ ,” Castiel sings softly.

Dean turns around and frowns at him.  “What did you say?”

Castiel sits up and shakes his head.  “Nothing, just…working on a new song,” he lies. 

Dean hums and turns back to the sink.  “Alright well, this plunger ain’t working so I’m gonna have to open it up from below. What did you shove in here, man, rose petals?” he jokes.

Castiel laughs dryly.  “I wonder what gave it away,” he says. 

Dean pulls out some gloves from his kit and begins to put them on.  “Do you have a spare bucket lying around?” he asks.

Castiel nods and disappears through the beaded curtain.  He returns a minute later with an old bucket, the bottom of it covered with crushed leaves and petals and brown stems.  “Here you go,” he says as he hands it to Dean. He watches as Dean situates himself under the sink and pulls out his tools. 

“I guess I’ll leave you to it, then,” Castiel says. 

Dean looks up at him, green eyes brimming with mischief and laughter.  “You’re gonna leave me here all alone?” he asks with a little pout. 

Castiel blushes and rolls his eyes.  “I have a shop to run.”

“But you have lunch to eat,” Dean says, nodding toward the abandoned dish of pad thai sitting on the old wooden table. 

They stare at each other for a few moments, the air in the room suddenly thick and cloudy. The tinkling of a bell in the other room breaks them out of their reverie. 

“Sounds like I have a customer,” Castiel says smugly. 

“I have one too,” Dean says with a knowing smile. He turns his attention back to his tool kit and begins to work on the pipes below the sink. 

Castiel wrinkles his nose and leaves the room, making sure to brush his fingers against the beaded curtain.  He wants Dean to be reminded of him even when he is gone. 

Once outside, he finds a dark haired woman standing in front of his display of orchids. He glances out the window and notices that the sun that had been shining so studiously all morning has disappeared, and is replaced by fat, gray clouds. 

“Is it going to rain?” Castiel asks. 

The woman doesn’t turn her head to look at him, rather, she leans in closer to a purple orchid, inspecting it closely.  “It’s supposed to thunderstorm,” she says casually. 

He slides behind the counter, his fingers resting on its wooden surface.  He presses the tips of his fingers against the grooves in the wood, the little deformities that he has come to know and love over the past few years.   “Is there something I can help you with?” he asks.    

“No,” the woman says without pause.   

Castiel smiles. “You seem like the kind of woman who knows what she wants.”

This catches her attention.  She turns to him and cocks an eyebrow.  “I do,” she says with a soft smile.  “You have a beautiful shop.  I can’t believe I’ve never been in here before,” she says as she picks up a white orchid. The stalks sway gently as she brings the blossoms up to her nose to smell them.  She walks up to the counter and places the plant gingerly onto the gnarled wooden surface. 

“That’s a beautiful one,” Castiel says as he begins to ring her up.

The woman smiles at him, her dark eyes shining.  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”     

Castiel accepts her credit card and swipes it, patiently waiting for the receipt to print. In the distance, a loud clap of thunder booms and the both of them jump.  He glances at her name, raised silver letters against a dark backdrop, _Meg Masters_. 

“Thank you,” Meg says.  She curls her fingers around the pot and holds it close to her chest. 

“Do you know how to take care of it?” he asks as he puts the receipt below the tray in the cash register. 

She nods and smiles. “Yes, I think I’ll be fine. I should go before it starts pouring.  Thanks again.”

He watches her as she slinks out of the shop, the bell tinkling as the door slams shut.

With a little smile, he walks up to the door and opens it.  He steps outside for a moment, taking a deep breath.  Above him the sky is dark and the clouds are thick and look heavy with rain. Wind whips through the trees, branches snapping, leaves dancing around in circles on the ground. He shivers and folds his arms across his chest, tilting his head back once more to stare up into the sky.

He goes back inside, rubbing his arms, trying to chase away the cold.  Before he disappears back into the back room, he makes sure to flip the sign from open to closed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, I know, but, this was all I could come up with today :0)


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s supposed to rain, you know,” Castiel says as he sits down at the table.  He glances down at his lunch, now cold, but he picks up his fork and pokes at the noodles anyway. 

Over at the sink, Dean is comfortably sitting on the floor, methodically taking apart the p-trap. “And I took the train today, would you believe that?” Dean asks with a little shake of his head.

Outside, Castiel can hear the wind practically howling through the trees.  It sends a shiver down his spine.  He twirls his fork around and watches as the brown noodles wrap themselves around the silver prongs.  “What would you do if I paid you in flowers?” he asks suddenly, a small smile playing on his lips. 

Dean stops what he’s doing and turns around to look at Castiel.  “If you paid me in flowers?” he echoes.

“If I paid you in flowers.”

Dean makes a face and then he shrugs.  “I guess I’d give them to my mother.  She’d like them,” he says. 

Castiel notices the way Dean’s body tenses up after he shrugs but he doesn’t comment on it. There must be a story there, but now is not the time for him to know it.  He finally brings some noodles up to his mouth and begins to eat them.  They’re still good, even though they’re cold. 

“You know I’ve lived in this city all my life, and I’ve never seen this shop,” Dean says as he goes back to work.  His hands move in slow, sure motions.  He knows what he is doing. 

Castiel hums and leans back in his chair.  “Well, I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never seen _you_ , so, what’s your point?”

Dean laughs. “The point is, it’s just funny, that’s all.  I’ve been in this neighborhood before, just…never bothered to come over to this side.”  

“I know, Dean. I’m just pulling your leg, as they say,” Castiel says, his mouth full of noodles. 

“Who’s they?” Dean asks.

Castiel’s brow furrows in confusion.  “It’s just an expression, Dean.”

Dean laughs again and he turns around to look at Cas.  “I’m just fucking with you, as they say,” he says with a little wink.

Castiel feels his cheeks burn and he busies himself with his cold lunch once more, the noodles and the bean sprouts suddenly becoming much more interesting than the freckled handyman sitting on his floor.  He eats a few more bites and then he places the fork back into the dish, getting up and picking up his guitar once more.  He sits on another chair, a more comfortable one, and as he begins to strum his guitar, the rain begins to fall. 

Dean glances toward the dirty window and squints.  There’s no way he’s going to be done with this any time soon.  He needsat least another half an hour and by then, the storm would be in full swing.  He suddenly aches for his car, and wishes she wasn’t parked at the shop getting serviced.  He sighs and reaches for a wrench.  He doesn’t have an umbrella, and the walk to the subway station from here will take him at least ten minutes.  He’s not looking forward to looking like a drowned cat by the time he gets home, so he turns to Castiel, wondering if he has an umbrella he could borrow. Before he can ask, a loud peal of thunder booms outside.  He swears he can feel the building shake, and Castiel even stops playing for a moment, staring out the window, eyes widening in wonder. 

“I was just gonna ask if you had an umbrella I could borrow.  I would bring it back, of course,” Dean says. 

Castiel’s heartbeat quickens.  “Oh, of course. I must have a spare one lying around somewhere.  Though, you _are_ welcome to stay for a while if you want to wait out the storm.  I don’t mind,” he says. 

Dean nods. “Thanks.  I’m sure it’ll pass, right?”

Castiel gives him a weak smile and nods as well.  “Right.”

* * *

The storm doesn’t pass.

Dean finishes up the job in twenty minutes instead of thirty and begins to put away his tools, wondering how he was going to make it to the subway in all of that rain. He can hear it, pelting against the window, drumming against the walls, beating down on them, imprisoning them inside. 

Castiel, who had disappeared for a while in the other room, comes back with an umbrella tucked under his arm, and a worried expression on his face.  “The only umbrella I could find is this one,” he says. He pulls it out and opens it, ignoring the look of shock spreading across Dean’s face. 

The umbrella is in shambles, and thin silver spokes stick out everywhere.

“Holy crap, dude! Don’t you know it’s bad luck to open an umbrella inside a house!” he Dean scolds.  He walks up to Cas and quickly snatches the umbrella away, closing it and shaking his head, muttering below his breath.  

“That’s a silly superstition, Dean,” Castiel says with a roll of his eyes.

Dean squints at him. “ _You’re_ a silly superstition,” he snaps.

Castiel laughs. “Perhaps you could call a cab?”

Dean makes a face. The amount of money he would spend on a cab would make this entire job a bust.  “All the way to my house? Nah, I’d rather walk in the rain.”

Castiel frowns. “But then you’d catch a cold.”

Dean shrugs. “I’ll be fine. Here’s your receipt, before I forget,” he says.  He hands Castiel a slip of yellow paper and smiles.

Castiel observes the amount written on the piece of paper and then he nods. “I’ll just write you a check, then,” he says stoically. 

“I thought only old people used checks,” Dean teases.

Castiel huffs at him.  “Hush.”

Dean can feel a definite chill creeping into the room and he shudders.  It’s much darker now than it had been when he came in earlier, all of the sunlight sucked out by the dark of the storm. He follows Castiel out into the front, the beaded curtain jangling as they both pass through. The front is even darker, as Castiel had pulled down the shades in front of the glass windows, leaving only the rapidly fading light from the front door and the weak light of a lone bulb above their heads. 

Castiel walks over to the wall and flicks a switch and immediately, the room is bathed in warm light. 

Dean blinks as his eyes adjust and he walks over to the door to peer outside.  “Fuck, it’s really bad out there,” he says softly. He sighs, and walks back over to the counter where Castiel is writing the check.  He feels a strange sense of loss, and wishes he could stay and talk to this blue eyed man.  What he got today wasn’t enough, he knows.  He has barely scratched the surface.

Just as Dean has wearily resigned himself to calling a cab to take him to the train station, the room is plunged in darkness. 

“Oh,” Castiel says.

“Oh?” Dean asks.

“It seems…we’ve lost power,” he says.

Dean looks up at Cas, unsure of what to say next.

Outside, the rain continues to fall.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m not scared of the dark,” Dean says with a little huff.

Castiel grins as he lights another candle and sets it down on the table before him. “I never said you were,” he replies gently. 

“Yeah, but you’ve got that look on your face,” Dean grumbles.  He sits down on the old wooden chair and stares at the tiny, flickering flame before him. 

The weather had worsened, rain pelting against the glass windowpanes like little stones. Even from inside, Dean could hear the wind howling through the trees, and when Castiel had graciously offered him a sofa to sleep on, he had accepted. 

“I promise, I’m not a serial killer,” Cas had said with a smile.

“That’s what a serial killer would say,” Dean had rebutted.

They've returned to the back room, Castiel lighting candles and placing them on the table and on shelves.  The candlelight cast little shadows on the walls, making the room look even older than it was.

Dean threads his fingers together and observes Castiel as he flicks his thumb against the flint of a lighter, lighting yet another candle.  If he thought Castiel was beautiful before in regular lighting, nothing compares to his face bathed in soft candle light.  Shadows dance across Castiel’s skin, and his lashes look even darker, little half moons beckoning him to lean closer.   

“You’re staring,” Castiel murmurs as he places the candle on the table.  He sets the lighter down and pulls out the other chair, sitting down and placing his hands on the table. 

Dean blushes and hopes that Castiel can’t see the flush in his cheeks.  He looks down and focuses on his fingers. “So, how long have you been here?” Dean asks. 

Castiel taps on his chin and hums.  “Well, this shop belonged to my Grandmother.  After she passed away three years ago, I discovered that she left the shop to me in her will,” he explains. 

A flash of lightning illuminates the room and Dean takes the opportunity to study Castiel’s hands.  “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play the guitar,” he says with a little smile.

Castiel hunches forward and slowly extends his arms across the table.  He reaches for Dean’s hands and then he pauses. “May I?” he asks.    

Dean swallows thickly but he nods. 

Castiel smiles at him and gently takes Dean’s hand in his own.  He tenderly traces his fingertips along the inside of Dean’s palm, tracing the little lines and marks imprinted on his flesh. “You have beautiful hands, Dean,” Castiel murmurs. 

Dean feels his ears burn and he licks his lips.  He suddenly feels very hot, and the chill that had been creeping into the room is gone, replaced by heat and warmth.  Something blooms in his stomach, soft leaves, or perhaps, petals, and he smiles.  “I don’t know if I’d call em’ beautiful,” he replies with a little shrug.  He resists the urge to pull away from Castiel, from those probing eyes and his warm hands.   

“You’ve done a lot with these hands…you’ve built things, and fixed things…” Castiel says.

Dean smiles tiredly and hangs his head.  “I’ve also broken things and…” his voice trails off and he begins to pull his hand away.

Castiel stops him. “Don’t beat yourself up for things that are in your past, Dean,” he says. “I’m sure whatever you did, you did it for a good reason.”

Dean is unsure of how to respond.  How can he explain to Castiel the way he feels?  How can he even begin to tell him about the ache, slow and steady, starting at the base of his heels, traveling through his bones and settling in the pit of his stomach?  He thinks of the loneliness that chips away at him, each day, little pieces of the façade falling and fading away.  “My mother died when I was young,” he says softly. 

The candles on the table flicker eerily in the darkness. 

“My father…he’s a good man, but he…lost himself, while my brother and I were growing up. He drank a lot, didn’t take care of us the way he should have.” Dean doesn’t want to look up. He doesn’t want to see the look of pity that must be on Castiel’s face, as plain as day, visible even in all of this darkness.  He doesn’t even know why he’s telling the florist all of this.  He can’t remember the last time he’s opened up to someone about his past, and it makes him feel raw and venerable.    

Castiel reaches forward for Dean’s hand once more.  He threads his finger’s with the other man’s and he gives them a gentle squeeze. 

When Dean finally looks up, he realizes that Castiel is smiling at him, a sweet, soft smile, reassuring and kind. 

“Come with me,” Castiel murmurs.  He gets up from his seat and picks up one of the candles from the table, holding it out in front of him.

Dean slowly rises and follows Castiel out of the back room and into the shop front. The wooden floorboards creak below their feet and Dean feels a momentary stab of fear as he steps into the other room.  It’s dark, darker than he had expected it to be, and the air feels swollen and thick. He wonders if perhaps Castiel has heard the soft intake of breath from behind him, because he reaches back with one hand, searching for Dean’s.  He relaxes when Castiel’s fingers brush against his own, and together they walk over to the counter. 

Castiel slips behind it and beckons Dean to follow him. 

Dean obliges and steps behind the counter.  It’s spacious, but still small enough to make him painfully aware of Castiel’s body next to his own, radiating heat. 

Castiel lifts the candle and shines the light on a picture frame hanging on the wall.

Dean squints. He can make out an older woman, she has a stern face, her hair pulled back into a severe bun.  There’s the shadow of a smile on her face, and as he struggles to garner more details, he realizes that she is standing behind the same counter where he and Castiel are standing now.   

“Is that…”

Castiel hums and nods.  “My grandmother. This shop was her pride and joy.” He moves the candle over to the corner of the frame and illuminates what seems to be a dried flower. “A rose from the very first rose bush I ever planted,” he says softly.  “I got into a huge argument with her.  We disagreed on…certain things and…she died before I got a chance to apologize to her.  I look at her picture every day, hoping she can somehow sense that I’m sorry for the things I said…” he says.  He lowers the candle and smiles sadly as he turns to face Dean.  He holds the candle between them and looks up into Dean’s eyes. 

“I’m sure she knows, Cas,” Dean murmurs, the nickname slipping past his lips with strange ease.

This makes Castiel smile and he looks down.  “I hope so, Dean.”

Silence wraps itself around them, and the only sound is the steady rhythm of their breathing, and the rain pounding itself into the ground. 

Dean becomes hyperaware of just how close Castiel is to him.  He can smell Cas, and strangely enough, he smells like the rain.

Castiel looks up at him and there is a storm in his eyes. 

“Are you lonely, Cas?” Dean asks softly.  He licks his lips and arches his brows as he reaches out to the wooden counter for support. 

“Aren’t we all?” Castiel asks with a little smile. 

Dean presses his fingers against the countertop, his fingers falling into smooth grooves in the wood.  He imagines Cas here, day after day, his fingertips sliding into those same grooves. He sees him, gently tending his flowers, watering them, making bouquets, sweating out in the back while he weeds the yard.  He sees Castiel sitting on his bedroom floor, strumming his guitar, singing love songs to no one.  And then he sees himself.  He sees himself stirring in an unfamiliar bed, exploring a strange new body.  He sees a tuft of dark hair, he feels his fingers sinking into warm earth, he feels Castiel’s lips, on his neck, and he swallows thickly.  “What’s happening to me in here?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Castiel grins, the candle casting shadows on his face.  “It must be the flowers.  If you listen close enough, you can hear them speak,” he says with a little wink.

Dean flushes. “What are they saying?” he asks.

Castiel squints. “They’re saying I should kiss you.”

Dean’s breath hitches in his throat and he licks his lips.  “Okay,” he murmurs.  He waits for Cas to place the candle onto the counter, and then, he is leaning in towards him. 

Their lips meet, and Dean moans softly.  He feels Castiel’s hands on his hips, squeezing down lightly.  He moves closer to him, closing the space between them.   

Castiel’s mouth is warm and sweet and he tastes like pad thai and something else Dean can’t place.  

Castiel smiles against Dean's mouth and sighs contentedly.  

Around them, the flowers watch silently, their scent lingering in the air.  

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts and comments are always appreciated.


End file.
